


Fireproof

by Aspareme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, M/M, smokejumpers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspareme/pseuds/Aspareme
Summary: Eren Jaeger is a newly minted smokejumper, a finely honed wilderness firefighting machine deployed via parachute to fight the most dangerous wildfires in the most remote locations, where backup is often hours away. Naturally, he loves his job. He's on the tail end of his first season at Shina Mountain Spike Base, Montana, when an unusually dry summer spawns a monster. A forest fire bigger than some states has claimed the lives of an elite hotshot squad and now it's up to the elite Survey Corps to put the beast down.





	1. Force Majeure

**Author's Note:**

> A self-indulgent AU inspired by the similarities of the 3DMG and real paratrooping harnesses, and by the fact that the closest analogue to a Titan is, essentially, an Act of God. 
> 
> Eren and the 104th are the newest inducted recruits of the elite Shina Mountain Spike Base, also known as the Survey Corps for their ability to get ahead of the fire. 
> 
> A bit of background on smoke-jumping: this is an actual technique wherein elite firefighters are parachuted into the backwoods in order to cut off wilderness fires before they can spread. Of course, this involves a few risks, namely: parachuting into a forest fire hours from help least amongst them. 
> 
> Naturally, it attracts the badass and the balls-out crazy. No guesses as to which Eren is.

**MIKASA**

 

“And if Mister Jaeger jumped out of a plane, would you?” 

 

When she was younger, a teacher had asked her that after an altercation regarding Eren, before the bigger boys had learned to leave him alone. They'd started it. She'd finished it. At the time, Mikasa had weathered Miss Morrison's disappointment and said nothing. How could there be any doubt? She has that much faith in his convictions, and anyways, a world without Eren isn't a prospect she’s willing to consider, let alone entertain. 

 

Curiously, she thinks she might not be the only one who feels that way. 

 

As the tired old Douglas DC-3TP rattles its way over the thermals like a little dingy buffeted on open water, she knows she’s not alone in quite literally following Eren Jaeger once more into the breach. She doesn’t have to like it, but she does have to make sure that at least she and Eren and Armin make it back alive. Mikasa doesn’t break her promises, especially not promises to Carla. 

 

Beside her, Armin is too still, too focused on the world outside the window. There’s a sea of green behind them, but that’s not where his eyes are drawn. It’s not where any of them are looking, not when there’s the conflagration ahead. 

 

The wildfire they’re flying towards is a monster, larger than some small states, and lashing its way across the backcountry with an almost preternatural menace. They’d flown over it, over the hungry red maw of the fire, the eerie nothingness of the black where things once lived and now did not.

 

They had all been able to see the the flashing lights racing in, but had stared deliberately forward while they flew over roads clogged with evacuees fleeing the horror of the flames. They just have to trust that the crews on the ground can handle it. In any case, she thinks pragmatically, there’s nothing she can do about it now. Her responsibility is to get Eren home safely. His responsibility—self-appointed, of course, as though she could expect anything less from him—is to get ahead of this monster and cut its head off before it can burn through another state’s worth of _everything_. Already, the sky is the ugly colour of a new bruise, and soot whips past the open doorway like snow.

 

She knows Armin is watching the way the wind buffets the ash around, the way the whorls and eddies of the updrafts pitch and yaw the airplane back and forth. She knows they'll be riding those same currents soon enough. Though he stares deliberately forward with parade-perfect posture, his hands are clasped in his lap, knuckles white. He’s become adept at reading the room from the corners of his eyes; Mikasa isn’t sure when he learned that skill and she isn’t sure she likes it. Still, there’s no sense in calling him out on his fear now, or its cause; he’d be stupid not to be scared. 

 

This is their first fire and it could very easily be their last. They’re too new and too inexperienced—of that she has no doubt. This monster has _killed_ people, too many good people, and they’re the ones who have to step up. They’re also the best, last hope; the 104th might be just the newest crop of rookies barely out of Missoula, but this is the sort of fire where everyone shows up or nobody comes back. And they may be new, but they are fully inducted members of the squad and staying home just isn’t something they do. 

 

Connie, facing her in his jump-seat, looks a little green around the mouth. Curiously for someone who makes being in the air look so effortless, he handles turbulence poorly. He says it’s motion sickness and everybody politely pretends to believe the fiction. Sasha claps his back heartily, but her eyes are wide and a little too wild, even for her. Not surprisingly given that she all but grew up in the cockpit, Sasha is a steady flyer; the fact that she’s so nervous doesn’t feel great. To make matters worse, those two are arguably the best in the wild. Sasha had been raised in the Alaskan backcountry; her dad had been a bush pilot and taken her up every chance he could, spending the rest of their time hiking. Connie is likewise confident in the wilderness, though his forests come with an Appalachian twang. She remembers his camo gear at Basic; he’d come by it honestly, he’d said, and she’d been hard-pressed not to smile when Sasha had started wearing camo-print Croakies on her sunglasses shortly afterwards. They seem the sort to genuinely like huntin’ and fishin’ and the good outdoors, and so she understands that the destruction below pains them. 

 

But their expressions are far too grim for even this nightmare to cause. Watching Armin out of the corner of her eye, she can tell he’s noticed. His eyes have widened minutely; a stranger wouldn’t be able to tell, but she isn’t one and so she does. She’s watching when his gaze shifts and meets hers. It’s always felt a little bit like being assessed, when Armin stares at her this intensely. She lets it wash over her like cold water—unpleasant, but ultimately fleeting. It’s just the way the fire’s forged him, and she knows all about that. 

 

But his eyes only hold hers for a second before shifting away, and she follows his gaze. 

 

They land on Eren, and Mikasa feels her blood run cold. While Connie and Sasha look terrified, and Armin looks like he’s trying to peel everything down to its ticking parts and understand it, Eren _looks_. Eren looks enraptured, nearly hanging out of the plane's open door. She’s fleetingly glad for the steadying hand Captain Ackerman has on the back of his jump-suit. Even she can hear the void calling out a challenge, and Eren has never met a challenge he hasn’t wanted to conquer. Here is his biggest one yet: hell on Earth, and he’s magnificent in how he has risen to it. 

 

He looks beautiful, even she can see that. He glows in a way that has nothing to do with the flames below, eyes bright as flares in his face. He’s in his element, chaotic as it may be. He watches the fire with a sort of predatory appetite that suits the roar of the pine trees catching below. There’s a sharp, sudden drop as the thermals abruptly collapse from underneath them as they crest the fire-front and they drop in the suddenly cooler air. Someone behind her lets out a sharp gasp. Nobody says a word. 

 

Eren just grins, baring all his teeth to the open sky. It’s like he’s daring it do its worst and, knowing Eren as she does, Mikasa wouldn’t put it past him.

 

She knows she’d promised Carla to follow Eren to hell and back, though she hadn’t expected it to end up being so literal. It’s times like these she’s glad she had. Even here, even now, seeing Eren happy is its own reward. He's the only family she has left. She might wish he didn’t like fire quite so much, but it wouldn’t change a thing and would only make her irate. Anyways, it’s not like she can judge him for it. Eren is a fire of his own, destructive and necessary by turns. It can’t help but do what it does, and neither can he. 

 

He can’t help but chase the flames, even at the risk of his life, and she can’t help but chase him, even at the risk of hers. When Moblit’s voice crackles through the helmet audio to announce the drop location, Mikasa takes a deep breath and steels her resolve. 

 

“If Mister Jaeger jumped out of a plane, would you?”

 

Mikasa supposes she’s about to find out.

 


	2. Freefall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eighteen hundred”, comes the call, and Armin’s stomach plummets like a pebble in a pond. That means they’re maybe sixty seconds out from the drop with the blaze growing ever more aggressive below them. Not for the first time, he wonders what on earth he was thinking when he signed up for this.

**ARMIN**  

 

“Eighteen hundred”, comes the call, and Armin’s stomach plummets like a pebble in a pond. That means they’re maybe sixty seconds out from the drop with the blaze growing ever more aggressive below them. Not for the first time, he wonders what on earth he was thinking when he signed up for this. 

Nevertheless, Mikasa is here and so is Eren, and the former probably wouldn’t let the latter go on ahead with this if it weren’t at least reasonably safe. Or, well, as reasonably safe as jumping out of a plane from fifteen hundred feet can be, when one is expected to stick a landing in the middle of the biggest forest fire to hit this chunk of the country in about a century, and failure means either eating bedrock or burning to death. 

 

But no pressure or anything. 

 

He doesn’t look down because that would show him the flames below the now-open cargo door, and he’s trying not to think about them. He doesn’t look out of the window because that shows the clouds outside of them, and he’d rather not think about that, either. He doesn’t look around at the rest of the 104th, because the last thing he needs is another glimpse of Connie and Sasha’s fear-pale faces. Sasha’s a certified pilot and Connie was a backcountry ranger, and if they look alarmed it’s probably for a good reason. If he looks at them, he’ll panic and have to hitch a ride back to base, and that’s out of the question. Not only would he have to resign on the spot, none of his friends would ever let him live it down.

Instead, he stares straight ahead and practices a neutral expression. He’s careful not to let his emotions show on his face, though really, this day has not gone according to plan. Still, those sorts of thoughts are for the ground. Right now he needs to focus on the job at hand. 

 

“Sixty seconds”, comes the call from the cockpit.

 

The forward group, Eren included, are milling near the door with manic grins on their faces. He’s not surprised; apparently one of the criteria for joining the forward attack team is a certain cavalier disregard for sanity and a severe adrenaline addiction. It was a given that Eren would be picked for that squad. He’s not surprised that Mikasa wasn’t; not only is there the issue of nepotism to consider, she’s entirely too conservative a firefighter. The fact that she’d been livid about it hadn’t changed the decision, and Armin can understand why. Frankly, he would have made the same call. He loves her deeply and would probably walk through coals for her, but Mikasa suffers from tunnel-vision where Eren is concerned, and that’s a bad thing when fire can flare in any direction. 

A sharp jerk on the back of his harness jolts him out of his thoughts. He fights the urge to flail and instead whips his head around in surprise, bringing him face to face with pair of flat blue eyes cooly assessing him. “Stop thinking”, Annie tells him, and he flushes. _Busted_. “It’s what I’m best at”, he retorts wryly, well aware he’s neither the strongest nor the most determined of their graduating class. “I’ve got to earn my keep somehow.” She snorts out a breath through her nose. “You’re not Commander yet”, she informs him bluntly, “and the last thing you need to do when you’re parachuting is _think_.”

 

 _Yet_ , he thinks. _She said yet_. She doesn’t give him any time to ruminate on that, instead returning to systematically testing his harness with steady tugs at the weak points. He'd been quietly pleased to find that she was his jump-buddy; if there’s anyone he wants checking his gear before he flings himself out into the aether, it’s Annie Leonhardt. She’s an expert parachutist; rumour has it she’d nearly set a free-fall record. Apparently she’d only missed it by a hair, and that was only because she’d deployed her drogue a split second too early. 

He’d also heard that she gets her kicks by wing-suit BASE jumping. He’d googled it and discovered that not only were videos of her all over the place on Youtube, Annie’s off-season hobby could arguably be described as playing chicken with a mountain. He’d seen the helmet-cam footage of her skimming over a granite outcropping nearly close enough to touch; the fact that she’d been clocked at going over a hundred kilometres at the time makes it all the more impressive. 

 

She must think the fire’s a joke in comparison.

 

He squeaks when she drops to her knees facing him; he is only human, after all, and it’s not like _he’s_ made of granite. “Grow up, Arlert”, she chides cooly, but he thinks he sees a spark of amusement in those hooded blue eyes of hers. Apparently there’s a wicked sense of humour under the frosty reserve; he’s ashamed to admit he hadn’t expected it. It’s occurring to him that he might have misjudged her. It isn’t her fault she has a bit of a resting bitch-face, or that she’s quiet. Come to think of it, he probably owes her an apology. He's really misjudged her, and she's been nothing but nice to him.

 

His eyes slide to the first spotter, Petra, as she leans out of the open door and drops an industrial orange streamer into the wind. He watches it twist and turn, buffeted by the updrafts he’ll soon be riding. It’s a very long way to the ground and the streamer disappears into the smoke well before he sees it touch down. That’s a bad sign; if visibility is poor the chances of a successful drop decline precipitously. 

 

Which isn’t to say they won’t jump—returning to base is not an option. All it means that his job just got exponentially more challenging. Armin watches as members of the forward attack team fling themselves out of the plane with whoops and shouts of glee, and tries to keep his eyes from watering with sudden nerves. They _must_ be crazy. Another sharp jerk distracts him.

 

“Return the favour, Arlert, don’t be selfish”, Annie drawls at him, and he goes pink again. It might just be him, but he thinks there’s an innuendo tucked in there. He’s probably just reading too much in to it. It’s just, Annie’s eyes are very blue. They’re the same shade as the water back home and he realizes to his chagrin that looking into them relaxes him in just the same way. He scolds himself for that thought; now he’s _definitely_ reading too much in to it. He should definitely stop.

 

She turns her back to him and bends her head forward; the nape of her neck is very pale, and very slender, bared by the slapdash bun she’s tossed her hair into. His fingertips suddenly itch with the need to touch; he idly wonders if her skin is as soft as it looks. He wonders if she’d allow it. He wonders if he should just spare himself the trouble and fling himself out of the plane now, given that he’s obviously lost his damn mind. 

 

Rather than do either, he tugs on the diagonal harness instead, making sure there’s no give in the buckles. It needs to be tight or she’ll lose her maneuverability, and they can’t afford that. They’re both in the Command Squad, so they’ll need to hit the ground running. Dropping to his knees, he slides his fingers over the nylon thigh straps, dainty as a cat on a tin roof. She shoots him a look, quietly mocking him for his delicacy. “Like you mean it, Arlert”, she snips, and he hits his limit. Fed up with his own inability to get his head in the game, he tugs a little harder than intended, jerking the thigh straps upwards into position. He hears her exhale sharply and instantly feels guilty. “I’m sorry”, he blurts, fluttering his hands at her, “I didn’t mean to manhandle you.” 

 

The look she shoots him is inscrutiable, but he thinks he can see a bit of a smirk lingering at the corner of her lips. She doesn’t say anything, though, for which he’s grateful. He’s already shaky with nerves, and he’s seen Annie toss seasoned firefighters twice her size over her shoulders and run laps. He’s got no doubt she could bring the hurt if she thought he was getting a little too handsy, and he’d rather the fire kill him than Annie. 

 

“Arlert, Leonhardt!”, and _that’s_ a definite bark from their spotter, Ness. They take their places at the door, Annie behind him and Armin with his legs dangling out of the moving plane. Now Armin has no recourse but to look out, much as he dreads it. The smoke has given everything an eerie blue tinge, though directly underneath them the ground is painted in sinister black and violent red. There's nothing alive down there, only charcoal and ash. It looks like he’s parachuting into hell, and he’s once again reminded that the reason they’re on this fire is because it’s already eaten the first squad to attempt to put it down. “There’s the target”, he hears Annie tell him, pointing to a tiny splotch of green tucked amidst the desolation of the black. “Do you see it?” Yeah, he sees. He could probably see this burn scar from the International Space Station. He wishes he were seeing this on tv, instead of from a front-row seat. He probably should have gone into research. 

“Roger”, he says, voice shaking. Ness moves behind him, and his muscles tense in anticipation. "Ready!", he hears Ness say, and Armin claps his hands hard to either side of the open doorway. There's nothing between him and the sky anymore, and he's so scared he can barely breathe. “Jump at will”, he hears distantly, and Armin takes a deep breath. He definitely should have gone into research. Maybe accounting. _That’s safe, right?_   When he looks up, Annie looks utterly unfazed. If he didn’t know her, he’d think she was even a little bored. He’s quickly learning to read her, though, and he can see the tiniest hint of excitement in her gaze. Given her usual stoicism, it might as well be the manic glee of the Survey Corpsmen already dropping like rocks below them. She hunkers into the doorway, staring a thousand yards into the sky. As the buddy with more experience, she’ll be jumping second.

 “Annie”, he blurts out, voice quavering, because he’s only human and he’s fifteen hundred feet above a forest fire with no guarantee that he’s going to make it down safely, let alone survive the fire he’s supposed to be fighting. She meets his eyes, gaze assessing. “What should I do if I’m not thinking?”, he asks as she shifts closer to the door, closer to him. Her knees are almost pressed around him, and he can feel the heat of her against his back. Her toes are nearly off the edge. The wind whips her hair out of her bun and in to her eyes. For a second, the smoke breaks and she’s silhouetted against the brilliant blue of a Montana summer sky. Annie Leonhardt suddenly smiles at him and, for a fleeting, insane moment, Armin thinks that she’s actually very beautiful. 

 

“Just fall”, she says quietly, and he does exactly that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wingsuit BASE jumping](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wingsuit_flying#Wingsuit_BASE) is pretty much exactly as Armin describes it. You bundle yourself into a squirrel-suit and then jump off of tall objects and try to play chicken with gravity. Canonically, Annie is very blasé about training because it's something she finds easy; I tried to find an analogue for that in this AU. 
> 
> If you're curious to see what Annie's BASE jump looked like, [Uli Emanuele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-C_jPcUkVrM) was the inspiration.
> 
> The [photoset](https://barelygiveaficaway.tumblr.com/post/154188685991/fireproof-chapter-two-thirteen-thousand-comes) for this fic can be found on tumblr.


	3. Snag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the crush of anxiety that was the ride up, there’s a eerie peacefulness in hanging in the quiet of the drop. Jean keeps his eyes on the horizon, watching as the mountains slowly rise up like walls. It’s almost relaxing up here, so long as he doesn’t look down, because below him, the world has gone to shit.

**JEAN**

 

After the crush of anxiety that was the ride up, there’s a eerie peacefulness in hanging in the quiet of the drop. Jean keeps his eyes on the horizon, watching as the mountains slowly rise up like walls. It’s almost relaxing up here, so long as he doesn’t look down, because below him, the world has gone to shit. 

 

He can smell the malignant reek of the fire, like a campfire gone wrong. The target is a small one, the smallest they’ve had to hit so far. It’s a tiny meadow surrounded by pine trees dryer than tinder. The front lines of the fire are barely a half-hour’s hike away, and the wind is brutal. A cross-breeze sends a slap of smoke in to his face, and he sweats with fear. It’d be a professional challenge on a good day.

 

He’s watching the target, focused on aiming for Jaeger’s monstrosity of an orange parachute, when the air suddenly gives away beneath him and he’s shoved violently sideways. It feels like he’s been slapped out of the sky by a giant hand, and it’s knocked the breath out of his lungs and his heart into his throat. 

 

 _Today is not a good day_ , he thinks, frantically checking his gear for malfunctions. He can’t find any, and he’s straining to think of alternatives when he's hit again. This time, it's like the sky is falling and he feels himself spiral for a gut-churning second. Fear is cold in his veins and his palms are moist with sweat. He searches the sky for Marco, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The same windshear that’s smacked him silly has collapsed Marco’s canopy, and now it’s tangled. He manages to correct it, but he’s way too low and worse, he’s way off course. He's headed over the fire, and Jean can’t bear to look and can’t bring himself to look away. 

 

 _This fire’s killed people. This fire is going to kill_ Marco _._

 

The thought ricochets through his head like a bullet. He clenches the harness with white-knuckled horror as Marco’s chute twists hard to the side, caught in another sharp gust. The teams already on the ground are looking upwards mutely, shading their eyes with their hands as they watch, helpless, as Marco tries to correct his spiral. There’s nothing they can do to help him. Nothing _Jean_ can do. 

 

“Marco!”, he hears Leonhardt shout in alarm. For all she’s got the emotional warmth of a komodo dragon, he thinks he remembers seeing the two of them working on their gear in companionable silence. Jean blames the lurching of his stomach on panic. 

 

He remembers the way Leonhardt had oozed boredom during their parachuting classes. If even half the rumours about her are true, she’s probably got enough airtime to teach the class. She’d taught Eren, too. She’d kicked his ass at Call of Duty afterwards, but she’d still gone out to the range to run him through his paces, and he’d improved after that. She’s below Marco, but only by a little bit, and while he can barely hear them she seems to be trying to coach him through a maneuver. He almost manages it, too; Leonhardt drops down hard, losing altitude but gaining speed in an attempt to give Marco some wiggle room. She hits the dirt and skids a few feet; Jean thinks he sees someone go to help her. The flash of blonde under the regulation hardhat suggests it’s Armin, or maybe Christa, but he’s too focused on Marco’s dwindling altitude to care. 

 

They’re the last two jumpers, thank god, so at least the whole squad will be able to help when this gets messy, because it’s starting to seem as though that’s the inevitable outcome. Marco reefs sharply, a technique Jean’s never seen him try before, but it seems to work because the chute obeys and uncurls. Marco cants just enough that he’s on a safe course, flying so low that the soles of his boots nearly brush the tree-tops. He’ll probably overshoot and end up in the trees, but a mouthful of bark and some bruised dignity isn’t too bad. 

 

And then it goes all goes wrong, because of _course_ it does. 

 

Just as Marco crests the meadow, the fire consumes a stand of snag and _belches_. It feels like breath in their faces, hot and rancid. It feels like the fire is toying with them, and he wonders what sort of monster likes to play with its’ food. And then he hears Christa scream, high and shrill, and Marco’s, loud and frightened. The gust catches him just afterwards, giving him an extra few feet of elevation and then dropping him just as quickly. He has the height to compensate. 

 

Marco doesn’t. 

 

He hits the ground feet-first with a sickening thud, and doesn’t move. Within a second he’s being swarmed from all directions; Christa’s barking out orders with stern competence, and he remembers she and Marco are their squad’s medics. They’re the only two on this drop, and now they’re both going to be out of commission. This is bad. 

 

Jean doesn’t remember how he gets to the ground, only that one second he’s floating and the next he’s stumbling towards Marco’s prone body. “Jean”, Mikasa says quietly as he approaches, trying to warn him off, but he shoves past her. This can’t be happening. It _can’t_ be. Jean’d been out here to prove Eren wrong, but Marco had actually cared. His stomach clenches. He’s not sure what he’ll see; he’s not sure that he even wants to look. And then there’s a scream, awful and Marco’s, and sobs out a breath of relief. They can evac screamers. 

 

And they are going to have to evac him, Jean can tell. 

 

The fall’s done… _something_ to Marco’s leg. At first what he's seeing doesn’t make sense. Marco’s leg below the knee is gone, just gone, but there’s no blood. He comes to the lurching realization that the leg’s still there; suddenly he can see where it’s doubled under Marco, and he can’t stop the tears that reflexively well in his eyes. Christa does her best with their limited resources, but that mostly involves adjusting and splinting the leg as best she’s able. A terse radio conversation with Base leaves her mouth a thin, grim line. “Forty-five minutes at the earliest, they said”, she advises him quietly. 

 

“Forty-five minutes? He could be dead by then!” 

 

She shrugs, making the stethoscope draped over her neck clink against her gear. “Our air is engaged on the left flank; the nearest hospital with a chopper is in Missoula. It’s a long way from there to here. He’ll just have to be strong until then.” Jean isn’t sure how he feels about her bedside manner, but she’s got a point—the helicopter can’t fly any faster. “Can I sit with him?” He knows they’ll be shipping out soon and the idea of leaving Marco is becoming less and less appealing by the second. 

 

“I don’t see why not”, Christa says. “Though he’s a little loopy right now, so don’t be alarmed.” She shrugs again. “I figured we can at least keep him comfortable while he waits.” He nods and marches back towards Marco, wrapped in a blanket and strapped to a backboard; a precautionary measure, Christa had assured him, but it’s awful all the same. 

 

Settling himself beside Marco, he takes his hand and gives it a little squeeze. Marco opens one eye and tries to smile up at him. The shock’s made him sallow  and despite Christa’s liberal hand with the Tylenol, his lips pull back from his gums and his eyes are empty. Jean feels like he’s decided to take a stroll through Uncanny Valley. He drops his gaze and hates himself for it.

 

“Hey”, Marco slurs a little later, once he’s metabolized some of the painkillers and rejoined the world of the living. Jean blinks into the gloaming; it’s gotten darker, smoke blocking out the setting sun and turning the entire clearing into a red-tinged nightmare. The snag trees, already burnt and practically dying to give it another go, are black silhouettes scratching a sky the colour of a scab. It’s official: the whole backcountry gives him the creeps. Once they get back to civilization, he’s requesting a transfer to a city park, see if he doesn’t. “Hey”, he replies quietly, stroking the back of his hand over Marco’s forehead. There’s a temperature, but that could be for any number of reasons. It’s probably not a good sign, but Jean’s careful to keep the fear out of his expression. Levi’s squad has moved out, and so has Hange’s, but Ness, their commanding officer, has stayed behind to ensure Marco’s medevac goes according to plan. That means that most of the 104th is clustered around, nervous as hens. He doesn’t want to scare them. 

 

“I’m sorry”, Marco says after a while, and Jean shakes himself out of his thoughts. “What? Why? For what?” The questions tumble out, rapid-fire, and it’s a testament to modern pharmaceuticals that Marco just smiles dreamily and tries to wave his hand, forgetting he’s been strapped to a board. “Getting hurt”, Marco says, and it sounds like he means it. “Don’t be stupid”, Jean tells him, and Marco’s smile gets sweeter. “You didn’t mean to.” “No, but I’m sorry. We were supposed to be partners on this one.” He sounds genuinely upset by it, and Jean feels like the worst sort of craven. “It’s all right”, he hears himself say. “Maybe if I’m lucky I can go with you back to base.” 

 

As soon as the words are out, Jean knows he means them. He could get on the medevac. He could get back to base and resign, pack his bags and ship out before anyone else could even get back from this deployment. He could disappear, find a job where things like this aren’t just another occupational hazard, where the stakes aren't so damn high. 

 

He was supposed to be Marco’s partner on this deployment. He was supposed to keep him safe. 

 

Here’s the result laid out on a stretcher. Jean’s stomach churns. 

 

“No, you can’t”, he hears, and then Marco is grabbing his hand, eyes bright in a pain-pale face. “You are not quitting. You’re too good to quit this!” He’s getting heated now, fighting the restraints and the meds, and it can’t be good for him. “Marco”, he tries to soothe, “I can’t do it. I got scared, and you got hurt, and…” The rest of the sentence hangs in the air. _And I’m not qualified to be a leader; how can I be when I couldn’t even protect one person? How can I claim responsibility for the rest of the squad?_

 

“—And what?”, Marco asks, and there’s a sternness to his voice that Jean hasn’t heard there before. “So you’re scared. That’s not a bad thing. The fear’ll keep you alive.” He’s tired, but his words ring with truth. “Jean. I want you to listen to me and not get mad. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not what I’d call strong.” Marco’s voice carries, and he can hear a quiet titter of laughter. “Thanks, Marco”, he drawls, and he’s pinned with a surprisingly lucid gaze that has him snapping his mouth shut. “You’re not strong, but that lets you understand what the weak feel like. It lets you handle a crisis, because you know how people will react when they’re scared”, and it doesn’t sound so bad when he phrases it like that. “You know exactly what to do at all times”, he adds, and that has him protesting. 

 

“Bullshit, it was Leonhardt who tried to talk you down; I just panicked.” 

 

“You didn’t, though”, Jean hears Ness say, and jolts with surprise. He’d hadn’t known he was listening. “You were shouting for Christa the whole way down, and you tried to guide Marco in. It was a good idea. It’s not your fault it didn’t work.”  He doesn't remember that. He remembers the taste of adrenaline and fear in his mouth like the sour stickiness of a copper penny. He remembers the way his hands shook, and the sickening realization that Marco was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

He doesn’t remember stepping up, and he selfishly wishes he could. 

 

“You tried”, Ness tells him, and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s all we can do. Just try.” Jean thinks about the hotshots this fire’s already eaten, and wonders if Ness knew any of them. He chews on that for a while, until the blades of the chopper are clearly audible over the roar of the approaching fire. They’ve stayed here longer than they probably should have, but there wasn’t any way to move Marco. The air ambulance lands in a flurry of hot air and dust, and Jean knows this is it. 

 

This is his shot. This could be his ride out of this mess. 

 

His squad is gearing with determined expressions on their faces, dwarfed by their packs and looking like spectres in the smoke. Marco is a hump of orange blankets being crawled over by doctors. The medics move with purpose. They know what they’re doing. So do the smokejumpers in the 104th. He thinks of getting in the plane, of flying away, of leaving the jumpers he’d trained with and now calls friends. He thinks of Marco and the vocation he'd been willing to die for.

 

Jean takes a deep breath, gets to his feet and grabs his pack. Fuck it. He’s got a fire to fight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Snag" is the firefighting term for trees which, having burned and remained standing, are now hazards to be carefully watched. They light up like matches and can make the forest fire worse. It's also a word for hitting a problem or hitch in the plans. 
> 
> Marco and Jean hit windshear, which is when the elements conspire to make the wind change direction extremely abruptly over a small geographic area. It's dangerous, especially for glider pilots and parachutists, as it can cause drops in elevation. Fires also heat the air over them, leading to local weather patterns. Marco and Jean would have been riding the thermals caused by the blaze, until the windshear tried to drill them into the dirt. 
> 
> And yes, Annie's lending a hand. Really, it's the least she can do. 
> 
> The [photoset](https://barelygiveaficaway.tumblr.com/post/154362167471/fireproof-chapter-three-after-the-crush-of-anxiety) for this chapter is up on tumblr.


	4. Fire Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So”, Sasha says as she hustles up to march beside him, hauling a pack almost as heavy as she is. “About those animals.” “What animals?”, he asks, knowing his girl well enough not to mention the non-sequiteur. God knows he hasn’t seen any critters. “Exactly”, Sasha barks, and then drops her voice to a whisper. “I haven’t seen so much as scat, and I don’t believe it’s the fire responsible.” She sounds like she’s pretty sure about it, and Connie’s inclined to trust her. She knows her way around the bush, and so does he. 
> 
>  
> 
> He hasn’t seen much in the way of track either; this area’d been barren long before the fire burnt it half to Hell and back again.

**CONNIE**

 

Yeah, so, there’s no part about this that’s good. 

 

Marco’s been smushed and Jean’s walking around with a two-thousand yard stare. To make it worse, this entire forest just reeks of wrongness and badness. Sasha’d noticed it flying in, and he’d hated it as soon as they’d landed. The backcountry has always been his happy place, all quiet and peaceful; this forest’s quiet, too, but it’s the silence of a predator on the hunt. 

 

He feels watched and fights the urge to look over his shoulder. He knows what’s back there, can feel it licking hot breaths against the nape of his neck. Connie puts a bit more energy into his steps, if only to put that little bit more of distance between him and the beast.

 

“So”, Sasha says as she hustles up to march beside him, hauling a pack almost as heavy as she is. “About those animals.” “What animals?”, he asks, knowing his girl well enough not to mention the non-sequiteur. God knows he hasn’t seen any critters. “Exactly”, Sasha barks, and then drops her voice to a whisper. “I haven’t seen so much as scat, and I don’t believe it’s the fire responsible.” She sounds like she’s pretty sure about it, and Connie’s inclined to trust her. She knows her way around the bush, and so does he. 

 

He hasn’t seen much in the way of track either; this area’d been barren long before the fire burnt it half to Hell and back again. 

 

“Been a dry summer, ain’t it”, he muses, and she nods. “Very dry”, she agrees, and eyeballs the scruffy-looking grasses and the dry rocks of the hack-and-slash track they’re hustling up. This entire place is painted in shades of brown and dun like a watercolour made of old coffee, and it puts him on edge. The squad’s boots kick up dust with every footfall and it’s migrated into every pore, gritty and unpleasant as sandpaper. He wishes he could scrub his hands over his buzzcut but knows better than to take the helmet off. Even with Sasha keeping an eye upwards for widowmakers, there’s always the risk of a snag branch dropping, and he’s short enough already.

 

They don’t need to say anything more about the heat or the arid conditions. They just hitch their packs up a little higher, cinch their helmets a little tighter, and add some gas to their hustle. This entire forest is a tinderbox waiting to blow, and Connie prays he won’t be around when it lights. 

 

“All right”, she says after a quarter hour of companionable huffing and puffing. “Let’s make a deal. You watch my back, Springer, and I’ll watch yours.” “Yeah, all right”, Connie drawls, giving her a shit-eatin’ grin for the ages; he knows she loves it, so he saves that smile just for her. “I’ll watch your back side.” She snorts at him and pulls a Cliff Bar from one of her pockets. She hesitates for a second and then offers him the first bite. He declines, because he loves her, and she grins back at him and stuffs most of the bar into her mouth. She has the audacity to wink at him as she does it. God, but does he loves her. 

 

And ain’t that just the damnedest thing. 

 

He hadn’t believed in it ’til he’d met her, until he’d gone and fallen for her at first sight. He remembers it with a fond smile, even through the gnawing discomfort of the hike and his jangling nerves. She’d stolen a potato during their orientation and scarfed it in plain view of their ripshit-scary commanding officer on their very first day as hotshots. Sergeant Shadis had a reputation, and Connie’d been sweating like a hooker in church as the guy had stomped towards him. Shadis had avoided people like Eren and Mikasa, probably because Eren has the sort of crazy eyes you just don’t mess with and Mikasa looks like she could fillet you like a fish and not feel anything more than irritation at the mess. But Connie? He’d beelined for Connie. Then Sasha’d stepped in like some redneck angel, taking a massive bite of a baked potato she’d produced from somewhere in her coveralls. _That’d_ deflected the Sergeant’s attention, and caught Connie’s. 

 

Boss-man’d made her run laps for hours afterwards, but Connie’d appreciated her gesture enough to sneak some bread and meat out of the commissary for her. She’d almost cried in gratitude, just as soon as she’d finished inhaling the makeshift sandwich. Connie’d fallen in love like falling out of a tree: a swooping drop and a sudden stop. He’d never met anyone weirder than him before, and that ham sandwich might as well have been a Cartier ring with a rock bigger than Shadis’ ego. He’d locked her down the next day and been blissfully happy ever since. 

 

And here they are, living the dream. 

 

Sasha pulls ahead, giving Connie a perfect view of her perfect ass. Sure, the coveralls don’t do anyone any favours, but he knows exactly what’s under them and that’s all that matters. And it’s not like Sasha’s complaining; if anything, he thinks she’s putting a bit more bounce into her step than’s really necessary. He won’t be the one to tell her, though. He’s busy appreciating the view. 

 

And what a view it is.

 

Sasha’s assets aside, they’re positioned towards the tail end of the formation; Ness in the lead, with Jean and Mikasa flanking him. That’s not surprising, not really. Mikasa’s the strongest, but also sorta congenitally incapable of playing well with others. Jean’s a good leader when he’s not overthinkin’ it, so it makes sense to have them heading up the formation. The rest of the 104th have fallen in behind, and quiet conversation babbles back to them on the breeze. He disregards it entirely; his girl’s talking to him and there ain’t anything in the world more important than that.

 

“Check it out”, Sasha says, and Connie looks up to where she’s pointing. It is a pretty sight. Darkness has fallen, and the ridge ahead of them is a forbidding silhouette against the red sky. He can see an ant-trail of lights crawling their way across it, and he knows it’s Hange’s squad. Their headlamps are bright as blazes up close, but from this distance they look like little fireflies in the smoky gloom. 

 

Even further ahead, nearly out of sight, Levi’s squad’s gone and crested the ridge. They’re hauling ass, and he can see two lights at the head of the formation. He has no way of knowing for sure, but he’d bet his truck nuts that Eren’s one of the two. With the way he moons after Captain Levi like some lovesick puppy, Connie’s got no doubt in his mind that he’d kill himself if he thought it’d impress the man. 

 

“That’s Squad Levi up there halfway to heaven, ain’t it?”, he asks, because Sasha’s eyesight is exceptional and he wants that theory put to bed. She squints and then nods, her normally cheerful face growing more and more grim. “I don’t like this, Con”, she mumbles under her breath, just for his ears. “It’s too dry and the wind’s stirring everything up. There’s windshear, you saw what happened to Marco. That sort of thing, it messes with you. It messes with everything. And fire, that fire…” She trails off for a second, and then sucks in a breath. “Con, there’s a ridge up ahead, hey. Might be we can use it as a firebreak, but the left flank’s still smouldering.” She looks distant for a second, like she’s picturing the map in her head. She traces their route in the air with her finger, face pale. “There’s that ridge, sure, and for now the wind’s cooperating, but Con… If it switches direction, we’re _fucked_.” Sasha doesn’t make a habit of cussin’ and that makes him scared. Sasha’s intuition’s uncanny, and if she doesn’t like something, Connie has a problem with it on principle. 

 

And he has a huge problem with this. 

 

He can hear the dry grass crunching underfoot, and it sounds like he’s stepping on bones. It’s an unnerving thought given the circumstances, and he wishes it hadn’t occurred to him. Behind him, the fire is a steady growl of sound. It’s hungry, watching as its prey squirms frantically in an attempt to escape. He can’t wait to put the bitch down and be done with this. This whole fire gives him a bad vibe. 

 

They’d drilled on tactics hard in basic and while the long-range scouting formation might make sense in the daylight, it’s worse than useless in the dark. He knows that the Forward Attack team has a reputation to uphold, but he knows the backcountry and the million things that can go to hell in it. “I don’t know, Sash”, Connie says, trying to inject some optimism into his voice for her sake. “Maybe someone’s hollerin’ at them on the horn. Maybe they know somethin’ we don’t.”

 

She nods. “That’s rock up there. Maybe that’s where they’re headed?” She tries to sound upbeat, but it falls flatter than a flapjack. She knows better. So does he. They’d both spent the flight poring over the weather reports and topographical maps of the area; there’s gulches and rock faces all around them, and a river fork up ahead. They’ve been following the stream as best they can, but what should be a free-flowing creek is instead an anaemic trickle of water. It’s treacherous terrain, the sort that’d be a technically challenging ascent even without the fire gnawing at their heels. 

 

With Marco out of commission, it’s up to Christa to keep them all in one piece. God knows she’ll have her work cut out for her if Eren tries to grandstand for Captain Levi and ends up tripping ass over kettle over a cliff-face. He rolls his eyes heavenward and spares a moment to thank God he was smart enough to fall for someone who’s impressed by good barbecue and fluffy biscuits and not acts of reckless heroism. “Maybe”, he agrees, but it’s non-committal and she knows him well enough to hear the doubt in his voice. 

 

“But seriously, Con. This just ain’t right.” And now he knows it’s dire; Sasha’s always been a bit self-conscious about her accent and takes pains to keep proper diction. If her burr’s coming through, there must be something chewing on her. “I don’t like it”, she repeats, and now the words won’t stop. “Squad Hange is supposed to take the center-guard, but that won’t do a darn thing for us if the fire decides to jump this little crick.” The plan is for them to follow the river and make their way up a sketchy little switchback in the hopes of cutting off the front lines of the fire. They’d been banking on river-water for pumping, but that doesn’t seem like it’s going to do them much good now. 

 

“It won’t cross”, he says, and tries to sound resolute. He barely manages to keep the worry from his voice, but Sasha seems to pick up on it anyways. He feels the brush of her gloved hand against his and squeezes it back for a second, thankful that she’s here on this deployment with him. 

 

“It won’t cross”, she lies to him, _for_ him, and God, but he loves this woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 'fire break' is a path, road, or trailhead cut into the backcountry bush and maintained by the Forest Service. By removing the fuel--in this case, trees, leaves and other flammable materials--it aims to stop the spread of the fire and assist in containment. Secondarily, a fire break may be used to transport crews closer to the fire. 
> 
> A 'hotshot' is the colloquial term for a firefighter who specializes in wilderness fires. Crews of twenty are transported to the site of the fire by ground transportation, whereas smokejumpers are transported aerially. Hotshots are considered elite: they are trained to work in harsh conditions for extended periods of time with little to no logistical support. 
> 
> They are, in essence, the Survey Corps. 
> 
> That this fire has already claimed the lives of a hotshot crew makes it exceptionally dangerous. Sasha's correct to be very concerned.
> 
> The [photoset](https://barelygiveaficaway.tumblr.com/post/154454832741/fireproof-chapter-four-so-sasha-says-as-she) for this chapter is up on tumblr!


	5. Titan Gulch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annie thinks she might have lost her mind somewhere during their trek to the command post. Or maybe she lost it a bit before that, when she followed Armin Arlert out of the plane. Where else could this newfound interest in insubordination have come from?  
> “When I want your opinion, Lieutenant Leonhardt, I’ll ask for it.” He puts only the subtlest hint of emphasis on her rank, but she feels it like a thousand cuts. 
> 
> Annie decides then and there that Commander Erwin Smith is definitely the biggest asshole in the state. Fuck him, and his stupid bolo tie.

**ANNIE**

 

“Commander, this is a bad idea.” 

 

Annie thinks she might have lost her mind somewhere during their trek to the command post. Or maybe she lost it a bit before that, when she followed Armin Arlert out of the plane. Where else could this newfound interest in insubordination have come from? 

 

And it’s not like she makes a habit of talking back, not really. She doesn’t make a habit of talking, period. She’s aware she has a pretty severe case of Resting Bitch Face and doesn’t hesitate to use it to her advantage. She knows what the other recruits say about her behind her back: that she’s emotionless, that she has a tongue sharp as shattered crystal, that she's a monster in the field with stamina and endurance to be respected. Annie’s not surprised when she intimidates people. She can’t change their opinion, so she doesn't bother to try. Anyways, she’s got too much going on worry about the opinions of some greenhorns.

 

She knows what the stakes are; she's lived and breathed them since she was old enough to understand the family business. She feels the weight of generations of service in the slow scrape of her commander’s emotionless gaze and she resents it down to the marrow.  

 

“When I want your opinion, Lieutenant Leonhardt, I’ll ask for it.” He puts only the subtlest hint of emphasis on her rank, but she feels it like a thousand cuts. 

 

Annie decides then and there that Commander Erwin Smith is definitely the biggest asshole in the state. Fuck him, and his stupid bolo tie. He got that bolo from Dad, anyways. He got a lot of things from their father, and that sits on her tongue like rancid meat. Dad said Erwin has the knack for reading fires and the worst part of is, he’s not wrong. Dad's always been able to sing out talent, and Erwin does have a gift for reading the situation at a glance. Still, it infuriates her that Erwin with his politician-perfect blonde hair not only outranks her, he’s pulling rank on _her_.  

 

Seriously, fuck him. 

 

Annie knows she’s an excellent smokejumper; she’s been trotting after her father’s shadow for as long as she can remember. It’s changed nothing. Erwin’d always been Dad’s favourite and nothing she’d ever tried had changed that. She’d nearly set a speed record and her father’s only comment had been a dismissive _nearly_. Erwin had said nothing, and that had been worse. His apathy and her grudging resentment has made being on the Command Squad a misery, but she’s not about to be less than her best just to avoid Erwin. Nevertheless, it makes for awful deployments.

 

The fact that she’s just received a direct order that she strongly disagrees with from a superior officer she can’t stand is only making this one worse. She bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood; the coppery taste turns her stomach but is vastly preferable to giving Commander Smith a piece of her mind. After all, it’s not the place of a lieutenant to contradict the Commander. Anything out of the ordinary is going to attract scrutiny she doesn't need, because if there’s one thing Annie’s proud of in this whole shitty world, it’s her self-sufficiency. Her personality assessments call her a lone wolf, but that’s not technically true; it’s only that she refuses to get ahead by relying on the accomplishments of others, and if the other cadets find out who she is, who her family is, everything she does will be discredited.  Anyways, she _likes_ being Annie Leonhardt. She likes the anonymity her mother’s name offers her. She likes being just another hotshot.

 

Armin sits down beside her at the radio console and she realizes to her chagrin that she’s starting to like that, too. 

 

She wonders if he’s finally clued in to the hints she’s been dropping for going on a year now. “Commander”, he starts in that soft, rational voice of his. She knows what he’s doing, and undoubtedly so does Erwin, but that doesn’t keep her from wishing it would work. Armin Arlert is possibly one of the most manipulative people she knows, and almost certainly one of the smartest. Those are traits she admires; he knows what he has to do and then gets it done regardless of the cost. 

 

Armin Arlert is a ruthless mind coiled in a hard body, and she’d climb him like a rope course if she didn’t think he’d clutch his pearls at the impropriety of it. Then again, she likes him flustered and she knows for a fact that he’s interested. She’s caught him looking and true, Armin watches everyone, but he _looks_ at her. And if she’s brutally honest with herself—and she always is, on principle, if with no-one else—she likes knowing that he’s looking. God knows she’s looked back. Still, he insists on playing shy. _No, not shy. Coy_. There’s a stab of insecurity and for a second she’s sure she’s being played for a sucker, but she makes herself dismiss it. Armin might enjoy playing games, but he’s not needlessly cruel. She’s reasonably confident he wouldn’t lead her on. She’s beginning to suspect Armin might enjoy being chased, but Annie doesn’t mind; her father raised a hunter. Anyways, she likes the thrill of not knowing; it’s like flying, like throwing herself at the ground and _missing_. 

 

Erwin’s silence is antarctic, and Annie realizes she’s missed something critical. Armin’s still speaking and it only takes her half a second to get back up to speed. Armin might be their strategic genius and perfect Erwin’s newest protegee, but Annie’s in the Command Squad on her own merits and she’s nobody’s idiot. 

 

“Sir”, Arlert continues, “with Marco out of commission, Christa Lentz is our only medic, and she’ll be with Ness’ squad in the rear guard.” He pauses, visibly steels himself, and soldiers onwards. “With respect, Sir, I must object. This maneuver splits the squads and isolates the Forward Attack Squad from the rest of the formation. We are relying on the creek and the ridge to provide a firebreak, but conditions are unfavourable and the fuel load is high. Sir, you selected me for this squad because you trusted my judgement. Please, I strongly advise against this!” His voice breaks suddenly, and Annie understands. Eren and Mikasa are both up there, and Arlert’s right to be spooked. She knows this backcountry. She knows the fires here. She knows how this terrain can go from beautiful to treacherous in a single lightning strike. She knows that there’s been drought conditions this year, knows that the riverbed is dry and the grass brown and wilted. One spark is all these slopes need to flare and trap them all in a firestorm.

 

She also knows Erwin, and once the man’s made up his mind there’s no changing it. 

 

“Your objections have been noted, Lieutenant Arlert, but the decision has been made. Lieutenant Leonhardt, relay the message to all units.” 

 

She hates being right. She hates Erwin even more. 

 

“Yes, sir”, she says, taking care to keep her voice level. She meets his gaze coldly and does not flinch. She has to follow his orders. She doesn’t have to like them, and she doesn’t have to pretend to, either. Let Erwin know she thinks his plan is dangerous. Is _wrong._  

 

“Command to all units, Command to all units.” 

 

The radio crackles in response. “Research Team, standing by.” Lieutenant-Engineer Moblit’s voice is competent, confident. The man never balks, and she’s never heard him sound anything less than calm. No wonder he’s the mad meteorologist’s wrangler—he’s basically bullet-proof. She waits. “Rear Guard, standing by”, crackles the radio, and Annie almost smiles. Ymir sounds grouchy, and perversely, finding out about someone else’s’ bad day takes a little of the sting out of hers. It’s not nice, but then again, neither is she.

 

She waits. 

 

Finally, the radio spits static and Lieutenant Ral’s voice is bell-bright in her ears. Annie’s relieved—she’s always respected her as a person and an officer. Her career is legendary, a series of impossible wins snatched out of the jaws of overwhelming odds. If anyone’s earned their spot on the Attack Team, it’s Petra Ral, and it’s easy to see why she’s Captain Levi’s second-in-command. “Forward Attack Team, standing by.” Annie takes a deep breath, shoots a flat glare at Erwin, and relays the message as ordered. 

 

“Forward Attack Team, proceed to Titan Gulch. Summit and dig firebreaks along the north-east ridge closest to the fire. Rear Guard, proceed to the south flank and dig firebreaks to connect with the Forward Attack Team. Research Team, your orders remain unchanged. Observe, but do not engage.” She can see Armin out of the corner of her eyes, face stoic but eyes downcast, hidden behind his fringe. He looks sick with fear. The look she shoots Erwin could freeze steam; he holds her gaze unflinchingly. Annie can see the hint of the smile, the sneer, on his lips.

 

Fuck him. _Fuck_ this. 

 

Annie goes off-message. 

“All units are advised that the situation is extremely dangerous; this fire should be treated as both unpredictable and potentially lethal. Fuel load on the summit and flank are high and consists primarily of dry grasses. All units are advised that the water table is very low and may be insufficient quantity to provide pumping. Be advised that wind conditions are unstable and gusts may shift due to local thermal events; these gusts may exceed 20Km/h and will carry debris and sparks. Be advised windshear has been observed originating in the south-west. Command over.” 

 

As soon as the Rogers are in, Erwin reaches over her shoulder and gently thumbs the machine off. This will be bad, she knows, but she’s made the choice of fewest regrets. Erwin’s just signed somebody’s death warrant with his orders and she wants no part of it. Annie’s made it her job to know every gully, every coulee, every trail and cliff-face out here. She’d spent summers with the Forest Service or on her own, enjoying the solitude of the backcountry. Erwin might have the academic knowledge, but Annie’s made a career of knowing the land. 

 

And she knows with a bone-deep certainty, knows with a sour-mouthed fear, that Titan Gulch is nowhere anyone needs to be right now. 

 

That sharp slash in the landscape makes for great views, but the steep cliffs are slag granite that make for uneven and treacherous footing. She’d hiked to the top once and spent days nursing the cuts and bruises that she’d earned for her trouble, and that had been at a relatively leisurely pace in daylight, unencumbered by the weight of tools and gear and supplies. The rest of the forest also hadn’t been on fire. She has no idea how Erwin expects anyone to make it up there in the dark, hauling hundreds of pounds of equipment, with a lethal fire dogging their heels. Levi’s squad are the best of the best, but they’re not actually miracle workers. 

 

Someone will get hurt, and it might be someone Armin likes. That matters to her. She thinks it matters more than trying to please people who’ve never given a damn in the first place. 

 

“Lieutenant Leonhardt”, Commander Erwin Smith says, voice calm and and full of quiet loathing. “When this deployment is complete, I will expect your resignation, effective immediately.” 

 

 _Fuck it_ , Annie thinks, and smiles with all her teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, surprise! I decided to make Annie and Erwin acrimonious half-siblings. Why? Because I felt like it, but also because I wanted to keep the idea of the two of them being in opposition without making one or the other a villain. Annie dislikes Erwin, and I'm sure if you asked him the feeling would be mutual, but unlike in canon, they don't want the other dead. 
> 
> I've also made an executive decision regarding Petra. I believe that, as someone of conviction, dedication and skill, Petra would be the sort of senior officer that Annie could respect and admire. She canonically holds Eren in high regard for that exact reason, so it wasn't much of a leap--especially given the difference in context.  
> \--  
> Comments on terminology: 
> 
> Fire Load: The degree of flammable material in a given area; the higher the fire load the more stuff can burn and the bigger the fire. 
> 
> Grasses: Dry grasses are dangerous due to their low combustion point and their high flammability--unlike trees, which generally burn slowly, grass fires are fast-moving and burn at extremely high temperatures. The Mann Gulch fire was a grass-fire and is still considered one of the worst tragedies in modern wilderness firefighting. 
> 
> Lieutenant: A rank above Firefighter and below Captain. Generally considered an entry-level Officer rank. There are varying degrees of Lieutenant; Petra would be a senior Lieutenant, while individuals like Annie and Armin are junior Lieutenants. As Officers, lieutenants often have degrees in Fire Science or Emergency Management; this can put them at a higher rank than specialists like Connie or Sasha. 
> 
> Lieutenant-Engineer: An Engineer is responsible for all the technical aspects of the firefighting apparatus, including the specifics of all gear used. They are, as the term implies, engineers responsible for fixing or improvising when equipment malfunctions.  
> \--  
> The [photoset](https://barelygiveaficaway.tumblr.com/post/154707352571/fireproof-chapter-five-annie-thinks-she-might-have) for this chapter is up on tumblr!


	6. Zhaghzhagh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lieutenant Leonhardt is not known for insubordination. Neither is she known seek out trouble and appears to actively avoid it unless provoked. However, it is possible her objectivity has been compromised. 
> 
> Her affections for Lieutenant Arlert are clear, and he is conscious of the fact that one of Lieutenant Arlert’s close friends is assigned to the Forward Attack Team. While Lieutenant Jaeger isn’t a tactician like Arlert or a powerhouse like his sister, Lieutenant Mikasa Ackerman, what he lacks as a specialist he more than compensates for in bloody-minded determination. He’s thriving under Captain Ackerman’s direction, but the Forward Attack Team is in the most dangerous position of the formation and Arlert is well-aware of it. 
> 
> This is his plan, after all.

**Erwin**

 

Lieutenant Leonhardt is not known for insubordination. Neither is she known seek out trouble and appears to actively avoid it unless provoked. However, it is possible her objectivity has been compromised. 

 

Her affections for Lieutenant Arlert are clear, and he is conscious of the fact that one of Lieutenant Arlert’s close friends is assigned to the Forward Attack Team. While Lieutenant Jaeger isn’t a tactician like Arlert or a powerhouse like his sister, Lieutenant Mikasa Ackerman, what he lacks as a specialist he more than compensates for in bloody-minded determination. He’s thriving under Captain Ackerman’s direction, but the Forward Attack Team is in the most dangerous position of the formation and Arlert is well-aware of it. 

 

This is his plan, after all.

 

Which is what makes Lieutenant Leonhardt’s insubordination all the more curious. Erwin ignores her smile, instead focusing on the way that she cants just slightly towards Armin Arlert. He’s seen her do that before. He’s watched her lean into the wind during flight a hundred times if he’s seen it once; a taut line of focus tight as any wire. In fact, he thinks he might have been the one to teach it to her, once upon a time. As he watches her gravitate towards Lieutenant Arlert, Erwin feels the earth tilt on its axis. He knows the brightness in her eyes to be fascination; it would appear that his little sister has a crush. 

 

_On a boy with a mind like cold silver. Wonderful._

 

The thought is not reassuring, but he tamps down the flash of fury quickly. There is the possibility, even the probability, that he has encouraged her to embellish her report and that is a problem. Mission-critical information had been relayed to the Squad Leaders prior to deployment; their experience in the field allows for objectivity. Now the recruits know, and that’s not ideal. Greenhorns can be skittish and Command can afford no breaks in the ranks. Not out here, not on this fire.

 

Still, this changes nothing. The teams have their orders, and he trusts his captains. He also trusts that Annie’s insubordination and Arlert’s influence on her will shortly be a non-issue. He refuses to feel bad about it. Lieutenant Leonhardt knew the stakes of the game when she deployed, and they are high indeed. 

 

The remains of Maria Strike Base’s team have been recovered; there are no survivors. This fire needs to be put down now, and he knows they are the ones to do it. Hotshot crews have been cutting fire-breaks into the perimeters around them, starving it of fuel and herding the fire towards them.  

 

The Gulch makes for unpredictable wind patterns, but the steepness of the summit means that there’s little vegetation. Slag granite and dirt above the treeline, she’d told him with an apathetic shrug after a summer spent living wild in the backcountry, and dry alpine grasses below it. He’d asked in an attempt to connect with her and not out of any real interest, but by then it had been far too little far too late. Nevertheless, Erwin doesn’t believe in wasting good intelligence and so had filed it away in his mind. Now, with the fire eating its way across the landscape, it’s time to put that knowledge to use. Arlert had been the one to suggest the strategy: force the fire into a narrow area and then smother it. Erwin had remembered Titan Gulch and after some discussion with his captains, he had made his decision affirmatively. They would use Lieutenant Arlert’s plan.

 

The rest had been easy enough to organize. 

 

But he’d be the first to say that men plan and God laughs, and so Commander Erwin Smith keeps his hands clasped to keep them from shaking. He is not impervious to nerves, only very good at hiding them. He is fully aware he may have sent good firefighters to their deaths, knows that he will have to make dreaded and inevitable phone calls to families and loved ones. There’s already one injury. The news from the hospital hasn’t been good; Medic Bodt might lose his leg. A shame; the boy had been possessed of not-inconsiderable talent. It’s a loss for the unit, certainly, and Erwin knows it will get worse before it gets better. It is a hard thing he asks these men and women to do; to leap into smoke and fire with no guarantee they’ll come out the other side whole, or alive. He sends them into the breach and the only thing he can do to assuage their fear is to jump with them. That’s a cold consolation in the face of towering flames and flag-draped funerals. 

Long practice ensures his expression does not change.

Doubt is a luxury a man in his position cannot afford. Arlert quails under his chilly stare, but Erwin isn’t sure how much of it is an act and how much of it is genuine fear. He knows Arlert respects him, just as he knows that Arlert is gunning for his job a few years down the road. He doesn’t trust him, because he doesn’t trust most people, but he watches his protege with cold calculation and no small degree of pride. He admires Arlert’s gift for long-term strategy; it’s one of the reasons Erwin hand-picked him for the Command Team in the first place.

 

If it weren’t Annie, he might even have approved of Arlert’s tactics to disseminate information. Unofficially of course, because it has thrown a wrench into his plans, but Erwin understands better than most that in positions of power the ends justify the means. He’s done worse to ensure his successes, and he wouldn’t fault Arlert for taking his lessons to heart. His only failing was in the choice of target. He is almost disappointed; he hadn’t expected Annie to be such an easy mark. That raises the question of whether or not Arlert is in fact genuine—he wonders, but puts the thought aside for later consideration.

 

Right now, he has bigger fish to fry than his little sister’s romantic liaisons. 

 

“Captain Zacharias”, he murmurs and when he turns, there’s Mike at his shoulder like a faithful shadow. True to form, Mike breathes in deep, flaring his nostrils like a hound on the scent, and smiles. Erwin had asked him once, what it was that he smells when he’s near him. He can remember it:  they’d been sitting on the front porch of Erwin’s rambling ranch house off base after dinner, watching the fireflies amble lazily through the wildflowers he pays someone else to maintain during the season. They’d been nursing beers—a Stella for Erwin, some ridiculously hoppy IPA for Mike—and the buzz had made him bold enough to brave the quiet tension thrumming in the air. 

 

 _Cold_ , he had answered after a long while, long after Erwin had given up on a response. Erwin knows that Mike is from North Dakota, knows that he loves the clean scent of a tooth-chattering January night when the air is so clear and so bitter cold that the blood freezes and burns in your veins all at once, and the stars seem brighter for the hoarfrost around them. Mike’d told him about it, once, and he’d sounded rapturous. _Cold,_ he’d said quietly, and that had been enough for Erwin. There hadn’t been much need for talking after that; there hadn’t been anything else to say. 

 

Now he wraps that same cold around him like a cloak, like a shield, and freezes his spine straight. Beside him, Mike pulls himself to his full height like a soldier. 

 

“Commander”, he says, and Erwin feels the weight of responsibility, the trust that these good men and women have in him. Accountability is a heavy burden, but one he shoulders willingly. 

 

“Fire the green flare.” 

 

If Mike sees his hands shake, he doesn't say a thing, and Erwin could almost love him for it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zhaghzhagh: The Persian word for the uncontrollable chattering of teeth due to extreme cold or deep rage. 
> 
> And for the record: yes, there's some squint-and-you-miss-it Erwin/Mike. Whoops. 
> 
> Also: Captain Ackerman is Levi. Lieutenant Ackerman is Mikasa. They are cousins, which is one of the reasons Mikasa was not selected for the Forward Attack Team. Annie and Erwin are half-siblings; obviously, Erwin is neither as detached nor as objective as he would like to pretend himself to be. 
> 
> Unreliable narrators, man. 
> 
> As ever, the [photoset](https://barelygiveaficaway.tumblr.com/post/155132539951/fireproof-chapter-six-lieutenant-leonhardt-is-not) is up on tumblr!


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